


A Heart That is Longing for Death

by SomeoneAsGoodAsYou (the_wanlorn)



Category: Lucifer (TV)
Genre: (also only one), (but only one), Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fairy Tale Reference, Hurt/Comfort, Monty Python reference, Post-Season/Series 04, Suicidal Ideation, and then 1000 more, chloe rescues lucifer from hell, give me 1000 fics about that, i just want chloe rescuing him, legit i do not care what happens in canon at this point
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-13
Updated: 2020-08-13
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:54:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25873195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_wanlorn/pseuds/SomeoneAsGoodAsYou
Summary: It has been so very long since Lucifer left, and Chloe isn't going to stand for it.
Relationships: Chloe Decker/Lucifer Morningstar
Comments: 41
Kudos: 255





	A Heart That is Longing for Death

**Author's Note:**

> Uhhh highkey suicidal ideation at the beginning. Just like, F Y I. But it gets better! Sort of!

He didn't know how long it had been since he last saw Chloe.

He had kept track, at first. It had been almost easy to count the hours. Forty eight hours and he'd finished surveying his kingdom from on high. Sixty hours and he'd put down the first rebellion. Three hundred twenty two hours and he'd stamped out the second major rebellion. Seven hundred twenty hours and he was tired, so tired, and the work was never ending.

He wasn't sure when that number had slid to days—he remembered sitting on his throne and realizing three hundred and sixty five days had passed in Hell, but not when he had stopped counting the hours—into weeks, into months.

Into years.

Into... nothing.

The work he thought would be endless—quashing rebellions and restructuring ranks of demons and rebuilding what had decayed while he was gone—petered out after the first few years. There was less and less that he could throw his attention into, that he could use to distract himself. There was less and less to differentiate the days from each other.

At some point he... lost track. Time was certainly moving forward—he was no Amenadiel—but it moved with a fetid sluggishness like a polluted stream. Everything started to blur, days melting into months into years until he didn't know how long he'd been there. Didn't know how long it had been since the last time Chloe touched him, kissed him, looked at him with eyes full of pain he was causing.

At some point he decided that maybe... Maybe it was for the best that he was down there, where he couldn't hurt her anymore.

It didn't make it hurt any less, but he was growing used to the ache.

But this was all there was left for him. Endless wastes of nothing, interspersed by, perhaps, a small spot of trouble here and there. He was in Hell and he was staying. For the rest of eternity. There was... nothing. There was nothing ahead of him. His life was behind him, left back on Earth, safe and unreachable. All he had left were memories that were too painful to dwell on and his kingdom of ash.

* * *

He took to wandering. Demons scampered out of his way after what he did to the last few that had thought to bother him—it had taken him forever to get the blood out of his shirt—as he walked through populated areas of Hell. He thought maybe there should be some sort of satisfaction to be had in being able to clear a square kilometer just by his very presence. It was hard to find satisfaction in anything, not anymore.

Sometimes, as he walked, he would let his fingertips trail across the rock walls, claws throwing off sparks that singed his shirtsleeves. There was no pain when they landed on his skin. There was little that could hurt him in Hell, not now. He had left that behind too. The raw scraping noise that filled the air behind him as he walked sounded like nails on a chalkboard, but even that became easy to tune out.

And sometimes... sometimes he thought he saw things. A flicker of gold that didn't belong in the ash, a blue too bright to be of Hell, the red of lips that felt like coming home against his own. But whenever he turned his head, desperate for a glimpse of her, it was gone.

* * *

He knew Chloe was going to Heaven when she died, knew it in his bones. Knew it in what little divinity was left in him. So when he heard the scrape of a boot against stone and turned, a snarl on his face, ready to eviscerate the demon who dared disturb him, it took a second to register that it was Chloe.

He had finally gone round the bend.

There was nothing around him for kilometers, just a barren wasteland that would one day be full of cells and screaming souls. He had been standing on the plain for... a long time. Standing and staring, watching the dark edges where even the wasteland fell away, wondering how far he could walk into those dark edges before he melted into the nothingness.

He was drowning, and he didn't know if this lifeline his mind was throwing him was worth it.

Spots of ash darkened on the ground and he realized he was crying, silent tears rolling down his face to splash off his chin and onto the ground.

Chloe was radiant, a glow surrounding her that spoke of life and holiness. Her hair was pulled back and he itched to loose it so he could run his fingers through. But if he touched her, he would know this wasn't real. Her clothes were covered in the ash that drifted constantly through the air, and there were smears of it on her cheeks and forehead. Her eyes- They were too bright to be real, too full of the emotions that he longed for to be anything other than a figment of his imagination.

The figment stretched out her hand and said, "Come with me if you want to live."

He nearly choked on his laughter. He was truly mad. Yet still, he couldn't bring himself to reach out and take her hand, not ready for her to disappear. When she stepped forward, still reaching, he dodged her grasp. He couldn't- He wasn't ready. Just a little longer, he wanted this for just a little longer.

"Lucifer," she said, pain etched so deep in her voice that he stepped forward, wanting to do something, anything, to make it go away. "We need to go. Amenadiel was setting the charges when I left. We don't have much time."

He was definitely mad. Amenadiel was _what_? The one who was always so keen on seeing him back to Hell was, what, going to rescue him? Hardly. Their relationship may have improved somewhat, but- Hardly.

"Okay," she said when he didn't move. "Just. Follow me, alright?"

She bit her lip, waiting, and when he finally nodded, she let out a relieved breath and turned. She started to walk and what could he do but follow behind her, trailing her like a lovesick puppy? She kept glancing back at him, and he realized her eyes were bright because they were wet with tears. His fingers twitched, but he didn't reach out to her. Not yet. Just a little longer.

They hadn't been walking for long before a demon came over the rise. It sniffed the air, not seeing them yet. When it turned and caught sight of them, it bared its fangs and dropped to all fours. Lucifer acted on instinct, leathery wings erupting from his back as he snarled and stepped forward.

But that, too, wasn't real, because Chloe drew a pistol and shot the demon between the eyes before it could move forward. It crumpled, falling backward and tumbling down a slight incline before disappearing. Lucifer turned back to Chloe, and her eyes were on his wings, welling with tears again.

"Come on, babe," she said, shaking her head a little and blinking as she turned away from the ugly sight. "Let's get you out of here."

He knew she wasn't real, but maybe... Maybe this was something he could have. If he just didn't touch, didn't try to have anything more, maybe he could keep this.

* * *

Chloe couldn't stop glancing back to make sure Lucifer really was behind her. She wanted him to come walk beside her, to take her hand and let her feel that he was real, that she had found him and that he was coming home with her. But he didn't want her to touch him, and even though it was killing her, it didn't matter. She was respecting his boundaries, because he wasn't okay.

He was so very much not okay.

He stared at her as they walked; she could feel his gaze on her and it never wavered. When she glanced back to check that he was still there, he'd be watching her like he was a man dying in a desert and she was a glass of water just out of reach.

But she _wasn't_ out of reach. She was right there if only he'd stop shadowing her and come walk next to her. Then she'd be able to reach out, to hold his hand in a tight grip that made absolutely sure he wasn't going anywhere but with her.

She thought maybe he was guarding her back at first, except they had only seen two demons and they'd both come from ahead of them. Lucifer had immediately snarled in a monstrous voice, low and full of ill intent. But she'd neatly dispatched each one with a single bullet to the forehead. Her hours (and hours and hours) at the shooting range (trying to forget, trying to keep her mind off her loss, trying to keep her grief from overwhelming her) had payed off. When she glanced back to check on him, he would be slowly shifting back to being more human.

_More_ human. Not fully. His eyes were red and leathery wings sprouted from his back with fierce-looking talons longer than her hand at the joints; his fingers were tipped with thick black claws. It didn't stop her from wanting to hold his hand, but it did give her pause. She didn't-

She didn't know why he needed those protections. She didn't know what had happened to him that made him feel- That made him-

She'd known there was going to be trauma. She wasn't a fool. She'd known he would be thrown back into hating himself, that there was nothing they could do about that but get him lots of therapy with Linda when he finally was home. But she didn't know why he wouldn't let her touch him. She didn't know why he shied away from her hands until she stopped trying.

She was respecting his boundaries; she had stopped trying and let him walk behind her, his eyes boring into her back.

Just a man, dying of thirst in the desert, water just out of reach.

Amenadiel had been able to give her two and a half hours to find him and bring him back. It had taken a full hour—full of killing demons and interrogating the ones she caught before putting them out of their misery—to find him. Going back was quicker, with the strange lack of demons, and they were going to make the main gate in plenty of time. The charges Amenadiel set at each gate—because of course there was more than one—were timed to go off as one. Timed, not triggered. They needed to be back on Earth when they went off, or-

Or they would all face the consequences.

"Still with me?" she asked when she could see the main gate in the distance, glancing back at Lucifer.

"Always," he said, his fingers twitching. She wanted, again, to reach out to him, and her fingers twitched in turn as she reminded herself that she was respecting his boundaries, that she didn't know what had happened to him while he'd been gone. She didn't even know how long it had been for him. Time in Hell didn't flow at a steady rate, apparently, and two years could be anything from only a couple months to a millennia.

She didn't think it had been only a couple months.

"I'm going to hold you to that," she warned with a smile that he didn't match with one of his own. "If-" she stumbled over her words, realizing that might not be- "If you want me to, I mean. I- I don't- You shouldn't feel-"

That got a smile out of him, but it was soft and sad and it looked like he wanted to cry. "Darling, if I could I would go with you anywhere. Just as long as you'd have me."

"Oh good," she said with a sigh, fingers twitching again with the desire to reach out. He must have seen it, because he flinched away from her. "Forever is a long time."

He winced and the look in his eyes was as desolate as the plain she had found him on. Still, he said, "And I'd desire nothing less."

She felt him stop short as they reached the gate and nearly stumbled as she halted. "What, what's wrong?" she asked and checked her watch.

She cursed. It was specially calibrated by Amenadiel to withstand the time fluctuations in Hell. The time fluctuations she'd forgotten about in her worry. It hadn't just been a quicker trip back to the gates; time had been _moving faster_. They had under a minute to get through those gates.

"Lucifer, _come on_ ," she said and reached for him, but he took a step back and she froze. Right. Trauma.

He looked... He looked devastated as he stepped back from her. He looked like he'd been so close to getting all he ever wanted only for it to be ripped away again. His eyes were wet and his breath shuddered as he let it out.

"Ah. So this is how it ends."

"What?" she asked, glancing at the watch again. Forty-five seconds.

"I can't go with you," he said, and the sound that was ripped out of his throat afterwards was so much worse than a sob.

She just stared at him, uncomprehending. "Yes you can. Did you not listen? We have to _go_."

She held out her hand to him again, impatiently shaking it a little. He glanced to it but still didn't take it. She had gotten _so far_ and if she failed now-

Well.

If she failed now she was either going to be trapped in Hell with him forever or he would be trapped there forever, all alone. She didn't know which would be worse.

"I can't go." He was shaking his head. "They'll kill you if I do. They'll-"

"Okay, so you weren't listening," she said, exasperation layering over the panic in her voice. When she spoke again, she spoke precisely and deliberately, if a bit fast. Thirty seconds. "Amenadiel. Is blowing. The gates. We have another-" she checked the watch "-twenty seconds, so we are not having this conversation. We are _going home_."

She sobbed when he shook his head. "I'm sorry. I need to protect her."

"Protect _who_?" she snapped, shifting her weight onto the balls of her feet. Whether she was going to dive for the gate or dive for him, she wasn't sure.

Tears were slipping down his face and another ugly sob tore out of his throat. "I know you're not real."

"I-" she said, looking down as the countdown slipped into single digits. "I'm sorry."

* * *

If this was a punishment for some slight—and he was certain it was; how could giving him everything he wanted only to tear it away be anything less—watching her step through that gate without him would- It would break him. He knew that. He knew he couldn't keep the phantom, but he'd made the mistake of hoping. Made the mistake of thinking that maybe he was wrong. Maybe this was something he could-

He hadn't expected her to lunge toward _him_. He had seen her getting ready to move, of course, but she hadn't tried to sidle closer to him to make it easier. She grabbed at his arm and caught it in a punishing grip before hurling herself through the gate. He stumbled after her in surprise, briefly registering the heat of fire at his back before he was bowled into her by a concussive blast.

The skin on the back of his monstrous wings was singeing from the flames fanned by the blast as he fell and landed atop the very, very real body in front of him. Chloe. She was- A deep feeling of dread settled in his stomach. She was real and-

And struggling out from underneath him. He rolled off of her and nearly screamed with the pain of landing on his wings, biting it back at the last second, blood filling his mouth as his teeth sank into his tongue. As he was sitting up, Chloe was- Chloe was yelling his name and putting something around his shoulders, patting firmly on his back, on his wings.

He did scream that time, a hoarse shout of pain that had her muttering apologies and telling him she needed to put the fire out.The fire- Oh right, he was on fire. From whatever they'd done- Then Chloe and the blanket were gone and all that was left was a warm wind burning across his wings—an earthly wind, not the winds of Hell—and her continued apologies in his ears. He wanted- She-

The dread was growing, narrowing his wandering focus down to _what had they done_?

When he voiced the question, his voice gravely from disuse and pain, Amenadiel was the one who stepped into his vision, who reached a hand down and pulled Lucifer to his feet. 

"Surely you can recognize the fires from a holy hand grenade of Antioch, Luci," he said, a smile on his face that wasn't quite reaching his eyes as he glanced down at the clawed, burned hand in his own.

Lucifer jerked his hand back.

He could feel Maze, standing a good distance away. When he looked up, she was scowling, her arms relaxed but hands on her knives. She gave a long, lingering look up and down his body, before snarling, "I hope you're happy," and stalking off.

He turned back to Amenadiel, his fists clenching and unclenching as he tried to will the claws away, will the wings back into hiding as much as they hurt like- Like the Devil. The laugh that escaped wasn't humorous.

"What did you do?" he asked again, and Amenadiel looked guiltily to the side—to Chloe—and back again.

"Didn't Chloe tell you?" he asked. Chloe didn't say anything. Lucifer didn't want to look and see the expression on her face, her horror and disgust. It was hard; his eyes wanted to stray to her, to drink her in, to- "We blew the gates with bombs made of angelic fire. All of them. It took many months to make enough, brother, you should be grateful. I-"

"Amenadiel." There was a hard edge to Chloe's voice, but it was still sweeter than all the trumpets in Heaven and Lucifer wanted nothing more than to listen to it for the rest of his days.

Amenadiel inclined his head briefly before saying, "I'll leave you two to uh- You should come by, Luci, Linda missed you and Charlie has gotten-"

"Amenadiel, please," Chloe said, her voice softer this time, edges rounded with something that was too close to begging for Lucifer's comfort. He wanted to turn on his brother, to demand he leave and stop upsetting her.

And he wanted to beg his brother not to leave him alone with her.

"I'll just go tell Linda we were successful," Amenadiel said and left. Just... left. Like he couldn't tell that Lucifer was drowning in the dread of having to turn and face Chloe like this. Like the joy of being _back_ , of never having to go back to that place, wasn't being completely washed away by how much he knew things couldn't be the same. Not after all this time.

"I'm sorry," Chloe said quietly. She didn't come any closer, and he could only guess at what she was sorry about. "I didn't- It was the only way to get you through in time."

He let himself glance at her then, jaw tight with the strain of not letting all the words he wanted to say tumble from his mouth like so many cursed insects. He wanted to apologize, to beg her forgiveness, to make desperate promises if only she would let him-

"Lucifer?" Her voice was trembling now, and it was his fault. All of this was his fault. "Say something?"

"This- This is- This is real?" he managed to get out, the dread that this was all some sort of trick winning over his reluctance to talk. He caught a glimpse of her out of the corner of his eye, just slow movement as she shifted around—never getting closer—until she was in front of him.

"As real as it's ever been," she said.

He couldn't stop staring at her, now that she was in his direct line of sight. He had tried to drink his fill back in Hell, when he thought she was just an apparition sent to torture him. But now that she was real... He reached out a trembling hand forgetting, for a moment, that he was still a clawed monster. Forgetting that his human mask had eroded so fully that anyone who looked upon him would see only a monster, not a person.

He let his hand drop. The pain in his wings was growing, nerves reawakening and a burning ache spreading through the leathery flesh and joints. He tried to flap them once, to move them and pull them back, put them away, only to groan with pain at the motion.

"Are-" Chloe started, stepping forward a single step before remembering that he was a creature not to be approached and stopping. "Should I leave so you can heal?"

The "no" that burst from his mouth was desperate, and he tried to tone it down with a "please," but if anything, it just made him sound more desperate. "It wouldn't help; that was angel fire," he said, trying to tone down the panic that had joined the dread in his stomach.

She nodded, though looking upset for reasons he was too exhausted to puzzle out. He wavered on his feet and she took another step forward before stopping.

"I-" she started and stopped, stumbling like her steps. "I'm sorry for- For touching you. Earlier. I couldn't- We didn't have time to argue and then you were on fire and-"

He blinked at her. "It's quite alright," he said, baffled.

"But you- You didn't-" She took another step closer. He tried to make his feet move, to move to her, but he still couldn't change back into human form. He was still stuck as a creature from Hell, and it had been too long since he'd left to assume she'd welcome anything from him.

"You wouldn't let me touch you, in Hell," she said. "I figured there was probably..." she drifted off, but he caught her meaning and scoffed.

"As if anyone would be able to touch the King of Hell without permission," he said.

"Okay," she said softly, and took another step, and another, until she was right in front of him.

He tried not to flinch away from her. It had been centuries since the last time he'd had to fight for his life, but he'd never been able to turn off the vigilance in Hell. He'd never been able to _relax_ fully, and bodies being near him meant danger. Perhaps she was right about...

"So do I have permission?" she asked, shocking him out of his thoughts.

"Darling, I'm-" he gestured at himself. "Surely you don't want-"

"Yes or no," she said, cutting off his words. "It's a yes or no question."

"Yes," he said after a moment, trying to gather himself but his voice cracking on the word anyway. "Always."

She reached for him and he flinched, immediately apologizing. She waited a moment, her hand hanging in the air a hairsbreadth from his face, before gently making contact. He gasped at the soft touch, her fingers whispering over his skin before she cupped his cheek gently—so gentle—and tears filled his eyes.

"Oh," she said, breathing the word out. "Oh, love, it's alright."

He reached out a trembling hand, but couldn't make himself do it. He couldn't make himself touch her when his hand was gnarled with burns and his fingertips were claws. It would be obscene, to touch her with that, to mar her beauty with the ugliness of his flesh.

"It's alright," she whispered, and took his hand, slowly, gently pressing it to her cheek. He gasped, his breath catching in his throat on a sob. She dropped her other hand to his shoulder and carefully reeled him in. Her gentleness something he didn't deserve, and it was going to break him.

He dipped his nose to her hair, the scent of Hell lingering but overpowered still by the heady scent of her shampoo. It smelled like home and his breath caught in his throat again.

"It's alright," she repeated. "It's alright. I've got you. You're safe. I've got you."

He wanted to make a crack about him always being safe. He was the Devil, a fallen angel, and there was nothing in Hell that could take him on. He didn't need this gentleness. He didn't need to be coddled. He was the Devil and-

And he couldn't make himself do it. It was that, her quiet insistence that she _had him_ , that he was finally _safe_ , that had the tears overflowing his eyes and silent sobs catching in his throat.

She murmured to him, words he couldn't parse but were comforting nonetheless, and let go of the hand holding his to her cheek so she could slide both arms around him as best she could without hurting his burned wings. She pulled him in tight, holding him tightly to her, and he clutched her like she was his lifeline.

Fitting, because she was.

* * *

It was some time later when he had cried himself dry and Chloe pulled away. She didn't let go of him entirely, instead sliding one hand down his arm and catching his clawed hand with hers. He couldn't stop marking the contrast between them, the redness of his skin against her tan, the thick black claws that were so inhuman he didn't know how she could stand to be touching them.

"Come on," she said quietly, leading him to the master bath. It was only then, surrounded by tile and bright light, that he registered that they were in his flat. That he was _home_. "We need to take care of your wings."

"It doesn't matter," he murmured to her, about to tell her that he didn't care, that he was going to cut the fiendish things off again. But he quailed under the look she gave him.

"It does matter," she said firmly, pulling him in front of a mirror. "Look."

He was loathe to take his eyes off her, but he did as she demanded. There were- There were patches, where she had touched him, where his skin had returned to its normal shade and the burnt flesh of his face, his neck, were hidden.

He lifted his hand to touch his cheek. The black claws were still there, but his hands themselves were covered in peachy flesh. Were the points of the claws duller? He pressed them into his flesh to find out, but was only given a moment to do so before Chloe was pulling his hand away and capturing it between her own.

She looked worried. He didn't want her to look worried. "I'm alright, darling," he said, but that didn't seem to convince her. "If you wanted to get my clothes off, all you had to do was ask," he added, hoping to draw a smile and a rebuke out of her, but neither came.

"Look at your wings," she said, and so he did.

The skin was tattered. No wonder it hurt so much. Chloe hadn't been touched, thanks to his wings—again—but they had borne the brunt of the flames and had just... He tried to extend one further, the one furthest from Chloe, but stopped with a hiss of pain.

"It's hardly the worst I've been through," he said, inconvenient memories of the Fall and the lake of burning fire taking over for a brief moment. "I can handle it on my own."

"But you don't have to," she pointed out. "Do you want me to leave?"

The sharp terror that clenched his heart and his stomach was a surprise. If she left, there was nothing to show that he wasn't hallucinating this. If she left, she might not come back. If she left, he would have to say goodbye again. If she left-

"Hey, hey." Chloe's hands were on his face, her touch so light it almost felt like it wasn't there. Like she wasn't real.

He reached up with trembling hands to cover hers, to push them more firmly onto his face so he could really feel them. She seemed to understand, pressing her fingers against him harder and stepping into him until she was so close he could feel her body heat.

"Okay," she murmured. "Okay, I'm not going anywhere. I've got you."

They stood like that for some time before Chloe slowly drew one hand away. He started to whimper at the loss, but it was only so she could pull him in closer, for a hug. He gladly went, sinking into her with a shudder of something close to pain. The movement stirred his wings more and he groaned a little. She ran soothing fingertips across his brow, her hand coming to rest at the back of his neck, fingers gently stroking against the base of his skull.

"I'm sorry," he managed to get out. "I can't imagine this is how you pictured our reunion."

"Well, no," she admitted. "There was definitely a lot less fire involved. Of that sort, at least."

He managed a chuckle at that, but it was an empty sound. He knew he was disappointing her, that he should be _himself_ and not this hollowed out husk of a person. But he didn't have it in him to feel anything more than relief tinged with dread. It was not actually a pleasant feeling.

"What do we do about your wings?" she asked in to his chest, not pulling back from where she had laid her head.

"They'll heal," he said. "You'll just have to have a bit of patience before..." He drifted off, well aware that unless he could summon his human guise back, she wouldn't want to have her way with him.

"But you're in pain."

Shrugging was an awful idea, and he wasn't quite sure what made him do it because instantly his vision whited out with pain. "Should only be a few days," he gasped out.

When his vision came back she had leaned back enough that he could see her face, could see the concern on it. The worry for him. He didn't know what to say to make her stop, to make her realize he wasn't worth it.

"Detective-" he started, but she cut him off.

She cut him off by pressing her lips against his pitted, scarred mockery of a face, her lips touching his briefly before she brought down his head with gentle pressure so she could kiss his forehead. His eyes closed, desperately trying to trap the tears there. He didn't know what she was doing, nor how she could stand to do it. At the best of times, he didn't want to touch his flesh when it was like this. She couldn't-

"Do you want a shower?" she asked as he slowly blinked his eyes open, relieved to feel that her touch—in those few minutes of not being able to see her—hadn't been a hallucination.

He glanced back at the tattered remains of his wings and grimaced. As dirty as he was, as unclean as he felt- "Likely a bad idea," he said. "Now, if you were offering a sponge bath..."

Chloe laughed, smacked his shoulder lightly then rubbed it soothingly with a murmured apology when he flinched. He didn't want to flinch from her touch, not even her teasing ones. He wanted her hands on him always, in any way he could get. If that had been ruined, if she couldn't freely touch him anymore, he didn't know what he was going to do.

"Would it make you feel better to be clean?" she asked.

He glanced down at his tattered suit with her, at ash staining his body, at marks on the floor from his feet. As much as putting on a clean suit and clean shoes would make him look more like the person Chloe remembered, he would still be dirty underneath.

"All I'm saying," she said with a look that was far too knowing, "is the sponge bath is on the table."

It felt like his heart stopped in his chest for a moment before it started pumping in overdrive. She couldn't mean it. She _couldn't_. And even if she did-

"I'm afraid I'm a bit-" he searched for the word to tell her just how exhausted and in pain and not the man she loved he was.

She smiled, soft, hands going up to frame his face again. "I know," she said. "But I think you would feel better if you were clean, and it doesn't have to go any further than that. I just-" Her voice was soft and hesitant when she continued."Let me take care of you? Please?"

After a moment of searching her eyes, looking for any sign that she didn't mean it, that she would regret it,that he should say no, he slumped a bit and nodded.

"Oh good," she breathed, and led him to the edge of the tub. She turned the water on, letting it heat up while she pulled soap and a washcloth off the shelves with one hand, the other firmly clasping his arm. He didn't know if she realized how grounding that was, how much it kept him feeling like this all was real.

"Clothes off, babe," she said when she turned back to him before pausing, then asking, "Need help?"

He shot her a look that fell short of his attempt to smolder, if her fond smile was anything to go buy. When he went to raise his arms and shrug out of the remains of the shirt, he had to stop short with a hiss of pain, dropping his arms back to his sides and looking over his shoulder at his wings.

"Don't glare at them like that," she said, stepping forward, her fingers going to the waistband of his trousers. "It's not their fault. Just enjoy the pampering, who knows when you'll get it again."

He stiffened at that, at the implications. She let go of his trousers immediately and ran a hand over his head comfortingly for a brief moment before settling it on his shoulder and squeezing gently. "Hey, I'm joking. I went through Hell and back to get you, you think I'd let you go that easy?"

He shook his head, but it must have been too slow for her because she frowned and let go of his trousers entirely. Then she took a step back and his heart dropped.

"Lucifer," she said. Her voice is firm with just a tinge of exasperation. It was the voice she used when she was about to reprimand him for something. It felt like he couldn't breathe, like his lungs had seized up and his heart had stopped and nothing he could do would ever fix it. "I love you."

"But?" he asked when she was quiet a moment too long. He braced for it, braced for her to tell him that she loved him but not like that anymore, she loved him but she was seeing someone else now, she loved him but he wasn't worth the trouble, she loved him but-

"There's no but," she said, looking and sounding confused. When he took in a gasp of air, her face crumpled a little and she stepped forward again, hands going to his hips, fingers digging in tight. "I love you, Lucifer. I just spent six months out of my mind with grief and worry. I blackmailed your brother into helping get you b-"

"You what?" he asked, a small smile—maybe the first true smile in a long time—on his face.

"It's not important," she said, waving his question away. "My point is, I love you, you knucklehead, and I'm not going anywhere. I went to Hell for you, I dragged you back here, and now there's no way you're going to get rid of me. Unless-"

The doubt that crossed her face was heartbreaking. He didn't understand how she could still want him, not after everything, not with the way he was tattered and broken and- "No," he said quickly, reaching to grasp her hand. "No, please. I- I love you, and it- I have missed you so much. I-"

He swallowed convulsively, for once at a loss for words. He hadn't tortured himself with this scene, with imaging what a reunion with her would be like because it was pointless. He wasn't going to be able to leave Hell ever again. His self—the self he had worked so hard to build while he was on Earth—was going to die down there and all that would remain was the monster. He had no pretty words planned for their reunion and was too foggy to come up with what she deserved, what she was used to.

"Okay," she said, breathing out a sigh of relief. "Well, good. Okay. Come on, let's get you undressed."

She was gentle as she peeled him out of his clothing, but there were still moments when he needed to stop, needed to breathe through the pain, while Chloe rubbed his shoulders soothingly. He didn't think to warn her that he wasn't wearing underwear when she went to pull down his trousers, but she just smirked up at him from where the was crouched on the floor, helping him step out of them.

It wasn't the first time she had seen him naked, but it was the first time she had seen _him_ naked, and he fought the unfamiliar urge to make excuses for his red flesh and burnt offerings. But she said nothing, just ran her hand up his side in a gentle caress as she stood. He almost expected healed skin to follow in her hand's wake, but luck was never on his side.

"Okay, have a seat," she said, gesturing to the edge of the sunken tub, "and just relax."

He expected something brisk, something efficient and no-nonsense. Get him clean with as little touching as possible. It was the most he deserved. Instead, her initial touch, running the soapy cloth over his still-bald head, was filled with an infinite gentleness. She touched him like he was precious, like he was fragile, like he could shatter at any minute.

"I'm hardly going to break, Detective," he said, his voice rough with more than disuse.

"I know," was all she said.

She didn't stop, nor did she speed up. She just... wiped away ash and dried blood he hadn't even realized was there. If there were any justice in the world, any at all, he would have been able to change back to the form she was used to under her gentle ministrations. She didn't deserve being forced to look at a monster. But no matter how he willed it, he couldn't. Even the brief patches of healthy skin that had bloomed under her initial touch earlier were fading. He would've been able to see the worry in Chloe's eyes as she tracked them even if he hadn't been able to _feel_ them getting smaller and smaller.

She was so gentle with his damnèd body, treating it like it was something holy, like it was deserving of peace. Like the underworld rebellions that had touched it were a tragedy and not merely his due. He closed his eyes when she urged him to stand so she could wipe away the ash from his arse, his legs. It was, perhaps, a sign of just how broken he was that he wasn't hard by the time she was done and sex was far from his mind. He was just so tired and-

He didn't realize he'd been silently weeping until Chloe touched his cheekbones, wet with tears, and murmured something he couldn't parse. He couldn't seem to stop. If only he'd been together enough to enjoy what she had done for him, to be able to repay her for her attention. Instead he was as docile as the lamb while she helped him out of the tub and started to dry him off with the softest towels he owned.

"Lucifer," she said, her voice full of worry, and he realized that must not have been the first time she'd tried to get his attention.

He blinked until his vision cleared and tried to smile for her. "Sorry, darling. Lost in my thoughts."

"It's alright," she said, letting the towel fall to the ground. "If you can be hurt when I'm around, does that also mean you can be... chemically altered?"

"Are you suggesting I get high?" he asked, a warm flicker of amusement lighting in his chest. "Why, Detective! Things really have changed since I've been gone."

The stab of anxiety that replaced the amusement was unexpected, as was the way Chloe's face fell for a moment before she faked a smile and herded him toward his bedroom.

"I meant painkillers, you goof," she said.

He made the disappointed noise he was sure was expected of him, but his heart wasn't in it and they could both tell. "I could hardly ask you to stay until these healed," he said, swallowing against the bile that was rising in his throat at the thought of her leaving.

The look she gave him was worth a hundreds words and all of them were some version of "idiot."

"I have some leftover oxycodone," she said. "At my house, I-"

He didn't hear the rest of what she was saying, a strange rushing filling his ears. He wasn't in a state fit to leave his penthouse, so of course he couldn't go with her to pick them up. She'd need to leave and go alone and-

" _Lucifer_." She snapped his name, sounding far too worried, and raised her cell. He hadn't noticed her getting it out. "I sent Linda for them. If you lay down are you going to be able to get up again?"

The relief filling him that she wasn't going to leave yet loosened his tongue. "I think you'll find that while the Devil might have 99 problems, getting up isn't one of them."

She rolled her eyes and her smile seemed to bless him with a physical warmth. He found himself smiling back at her.

"Lay down," she said, nodding to the bed. "I'll be right back."

A broken, "Chloe," escaped before he could bite his tongue. She turned on her heel immediately and went back to him. She slid her hand around the back of his neck and cupped the base of his skull. He easily tilted his head down at the gentle pressure and she went up on her toes so she could press a gentle kiss against his lips.

He savored the touch of her lips, the gentleness of the kiss, the smell of her perfume. He didn't want to let her go, but he didn't try to stop her when she pulled back far too soon and sank back onto her heels.

"I'm just going to get you some water," she said, letting her hand slide from the back of his neck around and down to his chest, to land over his heart. "I'll be right back."

"Of course," he said and nodded, swallowing hard and hoping she didn't notice.

She did notice his sidelong glance to the flask that was still sitting on his bedside table, because she laughed and shook her head with a smile, telling him no. The sixty seconds it took her to go to the kitchen for water and back were the longest sixty seconds of his life. His hand was trembling when he reached out to take the glass from her, and she frowned.

"Hey," she said quietly, reaching out to steady his hand when water nearly sloshed over the edge of the glass. "Why don't you lay down for a bit. Linda will be here soon with the painkillers."

"I-" he started, but stopped, not sure how to explain the dread that filled him at the idea of closing his eyes. At the worry that if he did, he would find himself back there. All of this just another pretty dream.

"At least lay down," she said when he didn't continue.

He put the glass on the bedside table and did as she asked, clenching his jaw as he settled on his stomach, his vision whiting out briefly when he had to move his wings. When he was finally completely on the bed, he was panting short, desperate breaths through the pain.

"Soon," Chloe murmured, crouching by the bed and cupping his cheek and brushing away the wetness on his cheek. "She'll be here soon."

She stayed like that, crouched beside him and murmuring little words of comfort whenever he accidentally jostled a wing and winced or gasped. And she kept touching him, kept one hand on his face or his neck. It was grounding and kept him from thinking very hard about anything.

When Linda announced her presence and Chloe stood with a grimace, he managed to bite off the instinctive protest he wanted to make with nothing more than a hitch of breath. It was enough, though, for Chloe to notice, for her to pause and open her mouth, presumably to call to Linda.

He didn't want Linda to see him like this.

Chloe, ever observant, must have caught something in his gaze, because she bit off whatever she was about to say and instead promised she'd be back in a moment and left, trailing one hand down his leg and squeezing his foot as she walked down the edge of the bed. It was... reassuring.

He couldn't follow the soft voices by the elevator, but true to her word, Chloe was back within moments, an orange bottle of pills in her hand.

"Here," she said, dropping two into his palm. "Take these."

"I'm afraid I'll need more than that," he pointed out, but she smiled and laughed a little instead of dropping another few pills into his hand.

"When was the last time you got high while I was near enough for it to affect you?" she asked and reached down to close his fingers around the two pills in his hand.

Every time she touched him—every time she brushed gentle fingers over his red flesh—something inside him eased. He didn't understand how she could stand it, but he was too tired to question it.

"Touché," he said, and swallowed the pills with a sip of water.

His head went fuzzy much faster than he expected. And much fuzzier than he expected. It was not an altogether unpleasant high, but it would be better if he wasn't so afraid it all was going to end up being a dream. He kept his eyes on Chloe as she puttered around the room, watching to make sure she didn't flicker or fade. To make sure she was real.

His wings didn't hurt anymore, the pain changing to a deep itching. It itched down to the bone, and he knew it was the feeling of healing, that his wings were going to be as bad as new soon enough, but it _itched_ and he wanted-

"What's wrong, babe?" Chloe asked, coming to stand next to the bed.

His mouth felt cottony and he wasn't sure if he managed to explain out loud or if it was just in his head.

"Budge over a little," she said, touching his shoulder.

He shuddered at the spark of sensation and shifted over as well as he could. She slid onto the sheets next to him, shimmying down under his splayed wing—careful, so careful not to touch it, and he knew it was because he was hurt but he wouldn't want to touch it either even if it weren't and it-

"Hey," she said, her face right in front of his, her sweet breath a balm to his hot flesh.

"I love you," spilled out of his mouth, his voice cracking in the middle. "Will you stay?"

"For as long as you want me to," she said, tilting forward until she was pressing her lips against his in a soft kiss. "Why don't you try to sleep?"

"Want this to be real," he mumbled, but his eyelids were feeling heavy and, now that she had suggested it, the exhaustion felt overwhelming.

"It is real." She kissed him again, and again. When he broke away, squirming with the itch of his wings, she laughed and cupped his cheek, pressed her forehead against his. "I'll be here when you wake up."

"Promise?" he asked, feeling foolish but needing to hear it.

"Promise," she said. "I love you too much to let go of you any time soon."

"Don't know how," he said, the warmth that filled him being chased by a chill. He was drowning, more so than he had ever been before, and he didn't understand how she could love that.

"You don't need to know how," she said, pressing soft kisses to his eyelids as he blinked slowly. "You just need to believe that I do."

He hummed in pleasure, his eyes falling shut and refusing to open. For a moment, there was panic. Then, nothing.

* * *

Chloe waited, one hand on his cheek, thumb brushing carefully across the scarred flesh. Once she was certain he was deeply asleep—that he wasn't going to wake up again—she relaxed back into the sinfully soft sheets. There were so many things she needed to do, from taking time off work to getting Dan to take Trixie for the week. But that could all wait until after she and Lucifer took a nap together.

Until after she was sure he was going to stay.

She let herself drift off to sleep, one hand resting lightly on his shoulder. That was all a problem for later. All that was important in that moment was that she had him; that he was back. And she wasn't going to let him go again.

THE END


End file.
